


Town and Gown

by Dreaming_Spire



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock BBC
Genre: Johnlock - Freeform, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-09-22
Updated: 2012-09-22
Packaged: 2017-11-14 19:17:27
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 991
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/518635
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dreaming_Spire/pseuds/Dreaming_Spire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For the Johnlock fic exchange, and thebaneofjane on Tumblr.</p><p>John Watson, returning student, meets one of his professors, Sherlock Holmes. It's dislike at first sight.</p><p>Work-in-process.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Town and Gown

_He’s in the hallway in front of Sherlock’s room, and he’s naked. There’s no going back from here. Yes or no, everything ends tonight. Before John can knock, Sherlock answers – of course, Sherlock knows why he’s here, but John stutters out the question anyhow. Before he can finish, Sherlock takes his hand, pulling him into the room with a calm “Yes.”_

_John doesn’t know how Sherlock’s clothes have disappeared, doesn’t know how they’ve reached this point already, but it doesn’t matter, does it. Sherlock is touching him everywhere, stretched over his back, voice pouring into his ears, assuring John that he belongs to Sherlock. Of course he does – they’ve left the door open, everyone can see, and it’s_ good _, it makes sense, people should know that Sherlock owns him.  For a moment, he’s confused – this isn’t what he wants, is it? – but it is, Sherlock is telling him so, and he knows it’s the truth.  John sits up, turning to face the people watching, to tell them the obvious –_

_Christ!_ John’s wide awake and confused as hell. What the fuck was that about? He’s had startling dreams before, but not like this - especially not ones that include having it off with that wanker Holmes.  Even if John were into men, that arrogant twat isn’t an option.  And now, less than an hour after dreaming about having it off with him, John has to face the wanker in person, sitting in class while those calculating eyes bore into him. _With my luck,_ John thinks, _he’ll know. Well, sod him anyhow._

* * *

The first time John Watson saw Sherlock Holmes, he considered tossing him out of the pub. It was a busy evening; with term starting in a little over a week, the university crowd was getting larger and larger. They were easy to spot - louder than the locals, more demanding, especially the first-timers, and more often than not, utterly fucking annoying.

“Just think, Watson – these’ll be your people soon,” Thomas smirked at him. 

“Not in a lifetime, Tom.” John had endured a fair bit of teasing from his fellow workers since he mentioned his plans to start classes. It was mostly good-natured, but there was the worry, even in John’s head, that he’d turn into one of them. He was only going to the continuing school, after all, not the uni proper. It was hardly posh.  And what else could he do? He couldn’t work in a pub forever, even if the thought was temptingly comfortable.

“Heads up,” Tom said, indicating a corner of the pub with a nod. “There’s a kiddie trying to get served.”

Ah, perfect. One of the “rules-don’t-apply-to-me-now” ones had seated himself in a corner, drumming his fingers on the table and glaring in bar’s direction.  Too good to come up to the bar to order, then, or figuring it’d be easier to get served if he ordered a meal.

“I’ll sort him,” John said, heading over. At least this one was tall enough to pass for eighteen, but there was no question he was going to argue about being carded. Most of the underagers telegraphed their nervousness, whether through being overly polite or putting on a poor show of bravado. This one came off as perfectly at ease, probably a natural side effect of always getting his way. He had that air about him, accented by the expensive clothes – rumpled, because when you had money, you didn’t give a toss about your things – and the odd good looks, soured a bit by the bored and annoyed expression. His nibs clearly found the pub not up to snuff.

“Sorry, did you want to order, then?” John made a show of wiping his hands on a bar towel. The kiddie wanted posh? Well, he wasn’t getting it.

“Obviously,” the kiddie drawled, producing an identification card. “And you can verify it however you like.”

The card was a twist, but not a new one. Some of them did come prepared with fakes. John examined it; if it was a fake, it was an excellent one. Still, it was hard to believe that the boy, no, man, if the card was correct, was twenty-three, only a few years younger than John. And the name smacked of someone having a go. “Sherlock Holmes?”

“Yes, although I was hoping we’d skip the comments about my name. It’s not as common as “John,” perhaps, but I assure you it’s mine. “

“What –“

Holmes waved the question off. “I heard a regular greet you as I passed.  Now, if I asked you how long it’s been since your accident, whether you were auxiliary fire brigade or EMT – EMT, I think – and whether you’re prepared for your class next Thursday, that would have been more of a challenge.”

John just stared. That was amazing – but it couldn’t be real. Someone was having a go at him, maybe as a good-natured prank. But they would have known mentioning the accident wasn’t on. Part of him wanted to ask how the stranger had done it, and part wanted to boot him, proper id or no.

“It’s no trick. It’s just using my brain – something that far too many people consider a trick,” again, Holmes seemed to read John’s mind.

“Right,” John replied. The pub was far too busy to spend time wondering what this wanker’s game was, and the mention of the class put him off. He’d been planning to leave early to study anyhow. “Right, well, go on up to the bar, or I’ll send someone over. My shift’s done.”

John walked out of the bar without taking a second look back at Sherlock Holmes. He collected his book, intending to study enough to be as prepared as possible on Thursday.  There was absolutely nothing he could do to prepare for the sight of Sherlock Holmes at the lecturer’s platform.

“Looks like a tough one,” the fellow next to him – Mike something - muttered.

“You have no idea,” John groaned.


End file.
